


Celebrity Fear

by Anonymous



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Nothing weird about jerkin' it to a dude on TV, right?





	Celebrity Fear

**Author's Note:**

> This is a goofy AU where Scout is a basement-dwelling manchild failed artist, and Spy is a celebrity who has never heard of him (or his mother).

_"And now, ladies and gentlemen, for a commercial break..."_

A hallucinogenic stream of technicolour advertisements and stiffly smiling salesmen with slick, water-combed hair spilled into Scout's living room from the centrepiece, the nucleus, the television. Well, _Scout's_ living room was, strictly speaking, a misnomer, since his mother was the sole owner and bill payer of their house, but as he was the one most often situated there he considered it his own. Screw you, society! If following his passions meant he was broke all the time, what the hell was he supposed to do? Give them up for a soul-sucking job? Ma appreciated his company, anyway, and his brothers supported them. What kinda moron would give up this life?

The bright light projected from the world of miracles behind the screen was the only source of illumination in the room. It both bounced off the textured walls and bored directly into Scout at once, existing everywhere while still confined to the bulky plastic frame. Illuminated particles of dust created the impression that the light had physical density, a solid mass that shifted and rearranged around his movements. His eyes were irradiated, drying up inside his skull.

In his hands he twirled a pen, clicking and unclicking it, inking patterns all over his fingers. He raised his fists to rub his bloodshot eyes and smeared it all over his face. Really, he should be working on his most recent project, which involved several artistic interpretations of four-way lesbian scissoring (“C’mon, Ma, it’s not porn! If you look close, it’s actually a metaphor for consumerism and...”) but in truth, even though it was lying in front of him right now, he hadn’t thought about it in months. He didn’t feel all that guilty.

An eight-bar jingle signalled the end of the commercials and the return of the late night talk show. Scout liked talk shows. He particularly liked low-end ones like this, where the celebrities were all brand new or outdated or freshly wounded by a scandal, where the interviewer was never quite as charismatic as she believed herself to be, where they were reduced to canned laughter because they couldn't find an enthusiastic live audience. He also liked how big the host's tits were, so he stuck the end of his pen in his mouth and zipped his fly down.

Her blouse was always loose, revealing just enough cleavage for Scout's imagination to run with- his brain wasn't good for much, but the fantasies he could conjure up when an attractive shop assistant bent over and her skirt inched up her thighs or the hot chick at the McDonald’s checkout brushed her hand against his when she handed him his Happy Meal, they were really something. Especially considering his condition as a chronic virgin.

_“The man behind the mask, please welcome onto the show, the one and only...”_

Scout grunted. What a stupid introduction. His hand slowed down as the camera panned to a man who seemed to be the last aging guy in the public eye untouched by plastic surgery (“Not that he needed it,” a muted voice in the back of Scout’s mind decided), with a hooked nose, a tight smile and an even tighter suit. It wasn't a bad look on him. He sat across from the presenter, barely obscuring his ire at having to appear on such a low-budget show. Discomfort radiated from him. Even the bubbly presenter appeared to be having difficulty staving off his brooding aura, and it was very definitely affecting Scout’s ability to jerk off.

“What the hell!” He whined at the unresponsive personalities on the screen. There was no way he could lose himself in her gaze when it was darting around the room like she wanted to escape. “Fuck you, man!”

They didn’t acknowledge him. A sensible idea would be to change the channel now but he couldn’t bring himself to dig the remote control out from the sofa cushion it had been buried under, and he didn’t have the self-control to take his hand off his dick for anything short of a natural disaster or hearing Ma’s key in the front door.

_“Uh, you’ve been on the road a lot recently, have you been anywhere that really stood out to you?”_

_“Oui, I was recently in Geneva...”_

“Oui”? Did that jackass really have to speak French on American TV? Was he getting off on thinking the viewer didn't understand? Scout palmed the length of his erection and bit his tongue.

“What a fuckin’ dickhead,” he mumbled to no one. He tried to block out the guest and focus on the hot chick’s jugs, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off him, off his face, the crooked, yellowing teeth and the dark circles that not even professional lighting and make-up could conceal, and- no, no, he was thinking about tits, and touching them, and maybe putting them in his mouth- he wondered if the guest had ever taken something up his ass before, he sorta looked like a fag with his snooty attitude and gelled-back hair, maybe he'd like Scout's dick jackhammering his throat like they do in the pornos Scout had taped. He'd bend over for him, presenting himself, begging for Scout to take him live on air, and Scout would wave and grin at the cameras as they captured his sexual conquest...

Fuck, what was he thinking? This dude was a geriatric creep who probably only got famous cause he offered sexual favours to sleazy stars when he was young and hot. And in turn, now he only gets laid because fresh meat spread their legs in a last-ditch effort to earn distinction. There was nothing hot about that.

Whimpering, he pumped his shaft at speed, twisting his wrist up and bucking into his own hand.

_"Wow, that sounds like a fascinating experience. Can you tell us about anything you're planning next?"_

_"I will be visiting several cities in New York next week for..."  
_

He would be coming to Boston, of course, aware that Scout was going to track him down, show up to his signing or awards show or whatever he was doing and take him aside, to an empty bathroom or a back alley, stick his dick in his butt (what else was there to do? That's the end-all of gay sex, isn't it?), and he'd be in disbelief that he was getting off from some kid he'd probably deem slum trash if he wasn't having the living daylights fucked out of him-

He came with a cry, labouring through the cramp developing in his wrist, spilling seed into his hand and over his shorts.

" _Well, thank you for taking some time out of your busy schedule to talk to us tonight!"_

_"My pleasure."_

Scout shoved his clean hand under the sofa cushion, fumbling around in the dust and loose change for the remote, and turned off the television before the credits could roll. The room was plunged into darkness, alleviating him of the weight of the light. He brought his semen soaked fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

Did he really just jerk off watching some old skeletal bastard talk about travelling?

In his post-orgasm haze, he couldn't find the energy to have a sexuality crisis, and it instead occurred to him that he hadn't caught the guest's name. "What the hell, man," he echoed, exhausted, and fell back against the couch with his cock still hanging out.

He had better wake up before Ma got home.


End file.
